She does not feel, she does not know, that she is preparing a poison
which will destroy us both; and I drink deeply of the draught which is
to prove my destruction. What mean those looks of kindness with which
she often—often? no, not often, but sometimes, regards me, that
complacency with which she hears the involuntary sentiments which
frequently escape me, and the tender pity for my sufferings which
appears in her countenance?
Yesterday, when I took leave she seized me by the hand, and said,
"Adieu, dear Werther." Dear Werther! It was the first time she ever
called me dear: the sound sunk deep into my heart. I have repeated it a
hundred times; and last night, on going to bed, and talking to myself
of various things, I suddenly said, "Good night, dear Werther!" and then
could not but laugh at myself.